


In My Time of Dying

by archeolatry



Series: Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Castiel's Mixtape, Coda, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Gen, Led Zeppelin - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Season/Series 12, Season/Series 12 Spoilers, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: Ugh...so between this being Chris Cornell's last song, and Dean's mixtape for Cas, and all the feels from the Season Finale, I had to get it all out in a Led Zeppelin-themed Destiel songfic. Like you do.All the angst, all the feels.





	In My Time of Dying

Dean raised the bottle to his lips; he had stacked his pillows an angle that let no whiskey be spilt between its mouth and his. Headphones rested comfortably over his ears.The rest of him lay flat and motionless on the bed. 

It was sometime after the third repetition of the song that Dean put on the headphones. Before that, the bunker’s sonic wallpaper was all Les Paul blues twangs and heavy drum crashes. Most all eleven minutes of the song sounded similar. Even the lyrics bled together.

_“Well, well, well, so I can die easy...”_

That line must have been sung at least a half-a-dozen goddamn times. ‘Jesus’ was every third word. But the drums were quiet and the guitar was soft at just about three minutes in, and the lyrics were clear as a bell:

_“If my wings should fail me lord, please greet me with another pair...”_

A month ago--hell, even a week ago--Dean Winchester would have had no time for that album. Except for “Kashmir”, which rocked. Led Zeppelin’s second was clearly the superior album; _Physical Graffiti_ was too mellow, and the fourth was about Hobbits and crap. In fact, when he last picked it up, it was covered in a fine layer of dust. He’d only taken it out to put “Ten Years Along” on Cas’ mixtape.

  


Jimmy Novak had died a half-dozen times. He’d been battered, exploded, possessed, sliced and diced...that bitch April had even run him through with an angel blade. But there had been no fireworks before; none of that blinding light. No warm, scorched earth underneath his fingers in the shape of half-plucked feathers.

The nephilim fled in a flash of light and a flapping of wings. Mary had disappeared into the ether from which she came. And then there were two: Sam and Dean Winchester, the guys following Heaven with a shovel and bucket.

Dean saw to Kelly, wrapping her up as they had found her, in her childbed blankets. She had died in peace and certainty, and seemed even lighter because of it. Dean could have tossed her onto the fire like a rag doll. 

Cas--Jimmy--they dug a grave for. The only shroud Sam could find for him was a set of blue bed sheets. Dean only glared at Sam. Too soon. Too obvious. Dean started to dig, and didn’t look back at the shrouded body until it was time to put him in. Jimmy was heavy and cold, like clay.

With each spadeful of dirt, Dean hoped for a miracle. A movement, a word. Resurrection was kind of Cas’ thing, right? It wasn’t until the hole was filled that he sensed Castiel may not be coming back. Jimmy Novak had nine lives, but it seemed Castiel had only one. 

Dean helped to chop the wood and build the pyre, but he couldn’t watch the burn. Instead he drove and drove until he found a liquor store, bought the biggest, cheapest bottle of whiskey he could find, and proceeded to drink. He didn’t come back until nearly dawn. By then Sam had fallen asleep against a tree stump, with the embers still bright orange by his feet. They both shuffled inside, found the most comfortable flat surface, and slept for what could have been days. 

Time came then to head back to the bunker; to consult the lore, to find which hunters were left, to figure out a plan. First, though, they had to ditch that truck. And thank Chuck for Sam’s sensitive pansy ass, because if he had given Dean back that mixtape even five minutes before they got home, Dean would have completely lost it. 

Dean rolled over to lift the tune arm and put it back in place. With the flick of a switch and the press of a button, a new song began to play. One of his Top Thirteen.

_“If the sun refused to shine”..._

Sam had found the tape in the truck while Dean was still siphoning off the gas. He had handed it to Dean with that damn sad puppy look on his face. Turns out Cas had driven hundreds of miles, to the corner of Washington state, in a rusty truck, with a woman carrying Lucifer’s child in her belly, while this mixtape was in the player. After that, it was all Led Zeppelin all the time.

_“Together we shall go until we die, My, my, my”..._

Dean wondered to himself if maybe he should listen to something else. Not like more Zeppelin, or even another record in his collection. They had some other stuff in this bunker, right? Tony Bennett or something? Worth a shot.

“Dean?”

The problem with listening to the same damn stuff was that sometimes, after a while, lyrics change meaning. A song you thought was about love turns out to be about suicide. One that seemed badass as a young man sounded cruel as you aged. Songs that made you think about one person began to be about another. Like this song. It was for Lisa. Or rather, it used to be. 

_“Dean?”_

He nudged the headphones away from his ear. Sam stood in the doorway, gazing down on him.

“Dean...you okay?” Sam asked, his eyes doleful under his lashes. “It got quiet all of a sudden.”

The answer flew past Dean's lips, quick as instinct. “I’m fine, Sammy.”

He nudged the volume up with his knuckle and closed his eyes, shutting the world away.


End file.
